I Know

the back of my hand and this neighborhood,which is devolving even now intoa semblance of Detroit. I know notto lead a horse to water becausethat won’t end well. I know my nameand to the mirror’s mute faceI confess it like a poorly planned crime.I don’t pretend to understandthis apocalypse of honeybeesvanishing from the planetbut I know where to shop for essential oils.I know what time it is. I knowwhere to go when the moonis bad. I know secret handshakeswhich are appallingly uselessand have never benefited me much at all.I know what astronauts atewhile weightless in spaceand I often dream of the vacuum.Its metallic taste. Its silence,which is perfect. I know the score.I know the code. I knowthe muffin-man, if you believe that.If you believe Einstein,the gig is practically upfor us living-and-breathing types.This is irrelevant: OnSaturn there are oceans of liquid diamond.This, too, has no bearingon your life, right now:When the sky opened up and was blue,I wanted to weep, once,filled with song, with ecstasy, with lunch.Once, I knew how to scryall of the Rust Beltwith a folded-up map.I knew the exact texture of storm clouds.I knew what was what,once. Listen, I knowwhat that sound means to the air.You don’t need to tell me.You don’t.

Paul Guest is the author of three collections of poetry and a memoir. His writing appears in New England Review, North American Review, Crazyhorse, and elsewhere. A Guggenheim Fellow and Whiting Award winner, he teaches in the creative writing program at the University of Virginia.